


Disarm

by robocryptid



Series: Ricochet [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: There are a handful of tasks Overwatch needs Hanzo to do in the States, and he has a file on each and every one. Only one of these jobs truly matters, though. It’s not an assassination or a shakedown or delivering a message. It’s a recruitment, of all things.He studies the dossier and insights from the man’s friends and former colleagues, but no amount of research could prepare him for Jesse McCree.---A Hanzo POV B-side toRicochet.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Ricochet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808677
Comments: 32
Kudos: 335





	Disarm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mataglap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/gifts).



> This is a B-side, meaning it assumes you've read the original and glosses over a lot of things that won't make sense if you haven't. Thank you to mataglap for the prompt, because [Ricochet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912846) remains one of my favorite fics I've written, and it was so nice to revisit that 'verse for a little while.

#

There is a picture that Hanzo studies, that he returns to over and over. He tells himself it is only research. 

There are a handful of tasks Overwatch needs him to do in the States, and he has a file on each and every one. He commits faces, habits, loyalties all to memory; he memorizes shoe sizes if he has the intel, because every detail can make a difference. 

This picture, though. This is for the real job, the only one that truly matters. It’s not an assassination or a shakedown or delivering a message. It’s a recruitment, of all things. Maybe an arrest. It is hard to tell the difference. 

Genji says Jesse McCree will be stubborn and wily but can be persuaded by what he believes to be fair. He has a history of criminal activity and black ops, and he has a strong sense of justice. The facts contradict each other, but Hanzo supposes he might be a walking contradiction, himself. What’s more interesting is that Overwatch wants someone like him. 

Hanzo scrolls through the dossier until he finds McCree’s specializations again. Killer marksman, adept enough with a sniper rifle but favors the kind of gun that gets him up close and personal. Familiar with a variety of explosives. Theft, of course. As Genji tells it, McCree has pulled some impressively elaborate heists. Undercover work, although his record here is mottled with a handful of  _ baffling  _ failures amongst the successes; how a fully trained agent lets himself get fired from a job waiting tables, Hanzo will never know. Still, he is proficient at gathering intelligence in general. He also has a good head for planning and tactics, primarily for solo operations and those with small strike teams. 

His old reports show a high rate of successful missions. He’s good at what he does, adaptable to a variety of jobs and combat scenarios. Perhaps most importantly to the current leadership, he has done this work for half his life. He knows what he’s doing by virtue of long experience, and he’s still young and able enough to enter the field himself. He received training directly from both former strike commanders, as well as Captain Amari. If it weren’t for the criminal history and his subsequent assignment into Overwatch’s seedy underbelly, he might have been the golden child, hand-picked and perfectly groomed for the next generation of leadership. Hanzo cannot think of a single other person in the recalled Overwatch who can fit into the center of that particular Venn diagram. 

When he considers that McCree is also willing to bend the rules and think like their enemies, he understands Overwatch’s insistence. It is respectable that they are as virtuous as they are; it is also necessary that they employ a trustworthy expert on the darker things. As it presently stands, Genji has been out of that game too long and Hanzo does not yet meet the criteria for trustworthiness. Jesse McCree occupies a unique space in Overwatch’s past and present, and there is no one better suited to fill the role than the man himself. 

There is the other thing, of course. They  _ like _ him. Dr. Ziegler even set aside her politely concealed contempt long enough to tell Hanzo about their history. She too has been with Overwatch half her life, and they have been friends for nearly all that time, excepting a rocky beginning in which he had to overcome her bias against his criminal history through the sheer force of his charm. When they spoke, she did not excuse everything he has done, but she conceded the usefulness of his methods and vouched for the general quality of his character. 

She emphasized the same thing Genji did, the same thing repeated by nearly everyone else Hanzo spoke to: McCree is “good with people.” He doesn’t know what it means exactly, only that it was a consistent refrain. When asked to elaborate, the follow-up answers primarily involved a great deal of shrugging. 

He has studied the surface information too. McCree is one hundred eighty-six centimeters tall. US men’s shoe size eleven. Prosthetic arm, result of some accident in recent years, which none of his former colleagues knew enough about to explain. Weight indeterminate — he came into Overwatch young and lanky, filled out quite a bit while on their payroll thanks to age, a steady diet and Reyes’ vigorous training, and nobody has seen him in person in a few years. He likes whiskey, coffee, and spicy food. He smokes, with a preference for cigars, although the habit is not exclusive to those. 

There is a miniature copy of his wanted poster among the files. Hanzo was tempted by his bounty long before now, but it has been a long time since he’s been in the United States, and longer since he left one of the coasts. McCree is smiling in most of the other pictures, crow’s feet deeper in some than others. He’s handsome in a rough cut sort of way, compelling to look at, and there is something mischievous about his smile. 

There is one photograph in particular that Hanzo always returns to. It is a candid shot Dr. Ziegler once took. McCree isn’t even the subject. Instead, he lurks in the background at the edge of the frame. Without the camera in his face to coax a smile out of him, he looks lost in thought. He looks troubled, brooding, strangely isolated even among people. 

Hanzo rather likes the picture, although he couldn’t explain it, if pressed. 

* * *

Jesse McCree is not “good with people.” He is a  _ flirt. _

At first, it is outrageous. The flirtation seems designed to annoy Hanzo more than anything. McCree is pushing buttons, trying to learn what can be used against him. It is equal parts irritating and flattering. Despite Hanzo’s best efforts to ignore it, he finds himself charmed. It is shockingly easy to get caught up in the moment, to respond before he has consciously processed the interactions. 

Hanzo is not that person. He is measured, carefully spinning out the plans for his next five possible moves. He has only ever lived in the moment in a fight. 

McCree flusters him — sometimes intentionally, sometimes entirely by accident. The only comfort is that he clearly does the same in return. For all McCree’s stupid come-ons, he gets visibly ruffled when Hanzo turns it around on him. 

Perhaps it is silly, but Hanzo did not expect to find him so attractive. He was aware, of course, that McCree was good-looking. He studied the photos. What he didn’t expect was something that hits so deeply. It’s a hook in his gut reeling him toward McCree, and it takes every ounce of his considerable obstinacy to fight it. 

He thinks at first that McCree is taunting him. His flirting feels calculated. That assumption does not last long. 

Hanzo is aware of his own appeal the way he was aware of McCree’s when it was only in photographs. It is a dispassionate observation that he never bothers to examine too closely unless he can use it to his advantage. The way McCree looks at him changes that. He can feel the gaze on his skin like a lover’s touch, flesh prickling with the weight of it. McCree  _ wants.  _ The temptation to act on it is insidious, lingering in every silence, every look, every tense joke. Hanzo won’t, of course. He knows how to be patient. 

That does not mean he is above using the knowledge against his mark. He channels his ever-present frustration into suggesting to McCree the many things he would like to do to — with, for — him, in the guise of bribes for his cooperation. McCree’s perpetually gratifying responses are the rewards for Hanzo’s patience. 

“Do you like having your hair pulled?” Hanzo asks from a stool next to him. He does not always touch, but this time he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of McCree’s hair behind his ear. The flush on McCree’s face is visible even in the dim bar. It says the answer is probably yes, and Hanzo smiles and shows his teeth when he offers to do exactly that once they have arrived safely in Gibraltar. 

“I have seen you watching my mouth. Is that what you want?” McCree’s blush disappears down the collar of his shirt. 

“I am sure we can find more pleasant uses for these,” he murmurs as he checks that the handcuffs are secure. The back of McCree’s neck is hot to the touch, the tips of his ears red. He does not bother to ask if this is something McCree would enjoy; they both know the answer already.

“I do have other piercings. Would you like to see?” McCree coughs and looks away. 

“Is this how you like it? Or would you rather I be gentle?” McCree has him shoved against a wall, the result of trying to escape Hanzo’s grasp. Rather than fight back, Hanzo fists a hand in his shirt and holds him close. He tips his chin up, and McCree’s lips part in surprise before Hanzo flips their positions to get a better hold on him.

“I can’t decide if I should offer to fuck you or to let you fuck me,” he says another time, as if he’s only thinking aloud. “I have my preferences, but I can be flexible.” He glances in the mirror at the backseat, and a slow coil of heat unfolds at the sight of McCree’s heavy eyes trying to burn straight through him.

Hanzo has never been shy, but he has also never been so forward in his life. That McCree ultimately rejects him is of no consequence, because it has been clear nearly from the start that if Hanzo’s offer were for the  _ present _ rather than some future date, there would be no hesitation. 

Of course the game can’t last. He may not take the rejection personally, but McCree is also stopping him from doing his job. He is the reason Hanzo cannot fully join Overwatch himself. The mission should have taken a few weeks at most, but now it has dragged on for months. That is a frustration no amount of cruel flirting can make up for. 

Hanzo is begrudgingly impressed. It has been a long time since his work truly challenged him. 

In the rare moments when they are between scuffles, McCree is funny and disarming. He thinks he makes McCree laugh too. These things feel more dangerous than any of the tricks. 

Worse yet, Hanzo is no longer convinced he is doing the correct thing. He does not know when it happened, exactly, only that he finds it increasingly difficult to summon the conviction required to win this game. One of them has to wear down eventually, and Hanzo worries that it will be him. 

McCree’s resistance is a matter of stubborn principle, and Hanzo has already tried every method of persuasion he could find. He has passed on intelligence, shown kindness, applied force, appealed to reason, and attempted to capitalize on his obvious attraction. None of it seems to matter. McCree will not budge, and he continues to insist on pushing back, trying to figure out which buttons of Hanzo’s he can press in return. 

Or he  _ did _ all these things. Something is different this time. McCree is drinking alone, and he barely made any effort to cover his tracks. Hanzo is surprised by his own concern. 

He is also taken aback by how it feels to have this much of McCree’s attention, the weight of his intent bearing down. Hanzo thought he understood McCree’s attraction, yet he is left fumbling when confronted with its full force. Despite Hanzo’s insistence on only promising future actions, despite how bad an idea it would be, despite his belief that this could easily be some manipulation, he wants nothing more than to act on it.

It burns in his veins and makes his head spin. He can’t remember the last time he felt it like  _ this,  _ like his whole body is resonating at an undiscovered frequency. 

For the briefest moment, it’s as if he sees the future: he will kiss McCree. They are hesitant now while they stand on the precipice, but the moment it happens, it will be furious, exhilarating, months of teasing and tension finally given an outlet. He can touch McCree’s hair, suck on the skin at the hollow of his throat, nip at his earlobe and jaw and work his way down. He already knows what McCree feels like under his hands. There will be no need to explore, no time he will have to waste, when he can simply take this, seize something for himself and no one else. 

It all unfolds in his head, and his feet do not move. When he imagines it, he realizes McCree has no name to call out, to groan or cry or whisper in his ear. 

It turns the heat to ice, bitterness stinging in his throat while he speaks his own name aloud. A small, foolish part of him hopes it won’t matter, but of course it does. This is what everyone told him, what he has learned for himself: McCree’s morals may be his own, and they may skew in a different direction than most, but he does have them. He’s a liar, a thief, a scoundrel, and an honorable man at heart. A bundle of contradictions, but easy enough to understand once one finds the pattern. Whatever doubts complicate his mind about Overwatch, they are still his friends, and McCree has his loyalties. Hanzo’s name was always going to damn him. 

If there is any consolation, it’s that McCree sounds bitter about the lost opportunity too. 

* * *

Genji told him to withhold his name on the chance that McCree might do something rash. Hanzo is certain what transpired was not a consequence his brother ever considered. It makes him feel no less foolish for listening.

He has always known his past would interfere with any entanglements he might wish to start. He has kept his sexual encounters sparse, limited to strangers who do not care to pry into any information beyond what will get them into his bedroom for a night. Anything further would require that he either lie or reveal the full truth. 

McCree did exactly what he should have expected, and in fact if he had not, Hanzo would have lost some respect for him. So he doesn’t fully understand why he is so disappointed, or why every thought of McCree is accompanied by a dull ache between his ribs. 

He rather enjoyed being someone different for a time. Someone who flirted shamelessly and who could be so freely wanted. Perhaps it’s only this that he is missing. 

A part of him is tempted to believe McCree might have wanted him even if he knew — that McCree might want him still. It is a foolish thought, and a treacherous one. If there was ever a chance McCree might have acted on their mutual desire, Hanzo threw it away the moment he said his name aloud. He would like very much to believe he did the right thing, but it is not as comforting as it should be. 

He keeps as far away as possible while fulfilling the technical obligations of his mission. He is tempted briefly to abandon it altogether; he composes a draft message to Genji in which he states that McCree will not be budged, that Overwatch is wasting time and resources that could be put to better use elsewhere. It is not wholly true. Hanzo is the only resource they are wasting, and he does not think his considerable talents are valued in quite the way someone else’s would be. 

He doesn’t send the message. He has not yet found the nerve to attempt to retrieve McCree again, but he does keep an eye on him. 

Then Houston happens. It isn’t difficult to figure out McCree has another tail, nor difficult to determine who among McCree’s numerous enemies it could be. There is only one capable of turning to smoke, after all. Their encounter happens so quickly that Hanzo does not have time to take out his bow, afraid that the moment he takes his eyes off McCree, he will be dead. 

It doesn’t occur to him until they are already in the car that he should have killed the Reaper while he had the chance. In the moment, he could think of nothing but ensuring McCree’s safety. Getting him out of the fight as quickly as possible. 

McCree is obviously in shock. Hanzo could capitalize on it easily. He doesn’t. 

Instead he drives out of the city the same way he drove in, heart hammering in his chest. He talks to distract them both. When McCree asks him why he tried to kill Genji, he is unsurprised. He supposes it was inevitable.

Every telling is painful. Every telling makes it feel new again. Hanzo does it anyway, because he knows it is the least he can do. McCree listens and leaves it at that. Unlike every other telling, Hanzo feels strangely lighter for it. 

The first hotel room that is available has one bed, and Hanzo toys with the idea of continuing to wait, but he feels how sluggish his limbs are, and he can see McCree practically swaying on his feet. He lets McCree sleep first, and he is determined to keep watch. McCree is a restless sleeper, and Hanzo can get no peace until he reaches out. His touch makes McCree calmer. It is too much temptation to resist allowing him to inch closer in his sleep, until Hanzo finally surrenders altogether and ends with McCree’s head cradled in his lap. 

Asleep, he looks much younger, the lines erased from his brow and relaxed around his eyes and mouth. His hair spills across his forehead in a way that is endearingly childlike, and Hanzo combs it away with clumsy fingers. Something warm moves inside him, undulating and hypnotic like he’s watching a campfire. 

When McCree finally wakes, it has been several hours. Hanzo’s knees ache from holding this position for so long, unwilling to disturb McCree once he finally settled. He’s so tired that his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he gets teased for it. All he wants is to close his eyes, but he knows that when he does, McCree will be gone. It is not even really about the mission any more; Hanzo simply wants him to stay. There’s no filter left in his brain to prevent him from admitting it to himself. 

And McCree, he puts a hand on Hanzo’s cheek, and Hanzo thinks for a moment that McCree is surely going to kiss him. He could have died, but he didn’t, and now he’s here and he knows Hanzo’s name and his thumb is tracing along Hanzo’s lip. It is enough to make his breath catch. It feels like it lasts an eternity, one in which Hanzo cannot hope to contain the deafening drumbeat of his heart.

He feels too heavy and too light at once, and he knows with dizzying certainty that McCree could ask him for anything and Hanzo would give it. 

The disappointment when McCree draws away is not so bad, because Hanzo can see the nerves for what they are. It’s flattering in its own way, because he knows that it has nothing to do with sex. McCree knows all the horrible things, and he is more than simply  _ attracted _ to Hanzo. It leaves him smiling; he can wait McCree out, if he must. 

It doesn’t mean he is practiced at putting any of these things into words. He tries, haltingly, because there will always be a small part of him that second guesses. He tells McCree to stay, and McCree promises he will. Hanzo saved his life and called a truce, watched over him while he slept. They nearly kissed, and right now McCree is giving off all the nervous energy of someone on a first date. It is enough. 

Hanzo closes his eyes. 

* * *

Stupid. 

It’s the first coherent thought Hanzo has when he wakes alone. It’s the word that follows him when he checks the time, washes his face, checks the room service tray left just inside the door. It rings in his ears when he sees that there is only one water bottle, one fork, one knife. 

All of McCree’s things are gone. Every scrap of evidence he was ever here has disappeared. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He knows who McCree is and what he does. He has been tricked and eluded and teased all along, but some part of it felt like a game before. It no longer feels that way.

McCree is “good with people.” He is a liar and a con man and a prideful fool who has convinced himself he wants only to be left alone. Hanzo knew better than to let down his guard. McCree may be all those things, but Hanzo is the one who fell for it anyway. 

McCree knows his name and what he has done and almost kissed him anyway, and Hanzo is an absolute idiot for focusing so much on the  _ kissed  _ and not enough on the _ almost. _ It will never be more than  _ almost. _ Even if it is, it won’t be real, only a joke or a game or a grift. 

Bile burns his throat, and he digs up his old draft text to Genji, the one where he calls McCree a stubborn ass and a lost cause, where he lays out his case that Overwatch is wasting its time. This time he sends it. 

* * *

In another inexplicable act of mercy, Genji takes him at his word. Overwatch forwards another list of Talon activities to investigate, after which Hanzo will be free to return. When he finds the nerve to tactfully ask  _ why  _ Genji — and Overwatch — let him abandon this mission so readily, he receives a dual answer: firstly, that he is right. His talents  _ are  _ better spent elsewhere, and they cannot expect McCree to change his mind tomorrow if he has been stubborn for months. Secondly, and more importantly by Hanzo’s estimation, Genji simply says that McCree has a knack for pissing people off. 

He does not explain anything to Genji, but he thinks his brother may suspect  _ something  _ happened. They do not know each other well, but Genji knows he is determined and does not give up easily. His willingness to accept Hanzo’s explanation without question is an unexpected relief. 

He works doggedly to complete the final tasks on his list. The US is a vast country, but he is growing tired of it even with new cities and new sights. He is eager for the day when there is an ocean between him and Jesse McCree.

Naturally, he cannot avoid him altogether. McCree has been poking his nose into Talon business since before Hanzo was set on his tail; for someone who refuses to work for Overwatch, his interests align with theirs on a regular basis. Hanzo narrowly misses being seen in San Diego, then he watches from afar as McCree finishes the job Hanzo came to do. He marks the job as complete, and he does not mention the details to anyone. 

In Las Vegas, he spots him again, but this time he cannot evade him. McCree is as infuriating as ever, elbowing his way into Hanzo’s job effortlessly. It is all the more infuriating that he looks so good while he does it. Hanzo rather hoped he would have a weak chin hiding under the beard, but the five o’clock shadow only throws his square jaw into stark relief. The suit is flattering too; McCree looks good in black, somehow even taller than he already is. 

McCree flirts as easily as breathing, and Deborah laughs and plays right into his hand. It looks like a dance, one that McCree is unquestionably leading. Certainly Deborah has chosen to play along, and she enters into it willingly, but when it is all crafted to lead her toward an end he has designed, her freedom of choice feels like an illusion. The back of Hanzo’s neck grows hot with shame.

There is something rising in his throat and stinging in his eyes. A fist clenches around his heart. He wonders if it would be easier if it were something as simple as jealousy, if it could be as typical as the agony of watching someone he desires flirt with someone else. Hanzo knows better. It’s the falseness itself that aches, the way he cannot stop wondering if it looked the same with him, if it was really so easy.

It’s a foolish thought. Of course it was easy. Hanzo let both his loneliness and his attraction show too quickly and played right into his hand. He made himself a target the moment he succumbed to the niggling hope that he might have found someone willing to overlook his past. McCree may be the liar, but it was Hanzo who stupidly dared to expect anything other than what he’d been shown a dozen times. 

McCree will not stop looking his way, as if he  _ wants _ Hanzo to see this, to react somehow. Perversely, it is this that makes him realize he does not have to stay. His original plan was much like McCree’s appears to be: seduce her, secure an invitation to her room to guarantee they will not be interrupted. However, with McCree acting as a distraction, he can slip in and out undetected right now. That it will remove Hanzo from this situation is an added benefit. 

There are no guards at her door, and none inside either. It takes little effort to enter unseen. Breaking into her computer is somewhat more time-consuming.

He watches the bar slowly fill as he copies her files to his own drive. It is only at fifty percent when he hears them stumble in. He startles, cataloguing the ways he might have to fight, but he could pick out McCree’s voice in a crowd of thousands; he is left tense for other reasons, listening while she slurs and they both laugh. He wonders how far McCree will take it, but of course he can’t do more than kiss her, if even that. She is drunk and he is an honorable grifter, Hanzo thinks wryly. It is for the best, but it also means Hanzo is still trapped in the tiny office when McCree enters. He smiles like he means it when he tells Hanzo he’s been looking for him. 

In the simplest terms, he stays because McCree asked him to. It isn’t simple, though. Hot and cold writhe through him, a muddled mess of curiosity and hope for some explanation that does not fit the one in his head, the nauseating realization that he still wants to be near him, and shot through it all, the vicious urge to lash out and punish them both. 

McCree says nothing that helps. Oh, there is something satisfying when he realizes that McCree’s desire, at least, was real, that Hanzo isn’t a  _ complete  _ fool who bought into nothing but lies. McCree says he  _ misses  _ him, and Hanzo almost chokes on the bitterness. It is too much work to untangle the true from the false here; Hanzo is too angry to give the effort even if it were possible, and he doubts McCree himself knows which is which either.

Most shameful of all is when it appears to dawn on McCree just how far Hanzo was willing to go. He thought for sure that it was apparent before, but it is clear McCree is only now realizing the depths of Hanzo’s foolishness, how well McCree played him. Hearing it said aloud only makes the humiliation more acute. He will not beg McCree to leave him be, but it is a near thing, one that twists up inside him until it can only present as fury. 

Talon interrupts. Hanzo knows McCree is wily, but he has never seen him in a real fight. It puts the lie to his often careless manner and rakish attitude; he is brutal and efficient, all economical movements and straightforward force. Despite all that he knows, it comes as a surprise, and more so when he sees the unbridled rage that one of them would dare draw a gun on Hanzo. It leaves his mouth dry, his heart pounding, and McCree’s smirk at the sight of his distress only sparks more heat. 

He refuses to let McCree distract him. He knows what lies at the end of that road. They have been there already. 

Hanzo does not make the same mistake twice. He presses onward, ever forward. The course of his life has given him no other choice if he hopes to survive. At the earliest opportunity, he leaves McCree, leaves Las Vegas, and he refuses to look back. 

* * *

He nurses his wounds, both the figurative and the occasionally literal. The latter at least are only partly self-inflicted. He knows he is rushing these last jobs, but he does not wish to linger any longer than he already has. His haste makes him more reckless than he ought to be. 

He does it to avoid thinking, but his success is mitigated by his need for food and rest. He cannot keep busy at all times, and when he allows himself a moment, the thoughts creep in. He took for granted that the bizarre interactions with McCree meant that he had someone to talk to. Now he is alone again. 

It is impossible not to wonder what might have happened if he took McCree’s offer in Vegas. He does not regret the choice, but he does often wonder if he might have chosen differently if McCree apologized. It is obvious enough in hindsight that McCree had regrets, that he had more to say and more that he wanted. Perhaps Hanzo should have given him the opportunity; he is not sure McCree deserves it, but he might like to be convinced. 

It is the sort of thought that got him into this mess in the first place. Hope is dangerous enough when he has not already been shown how false it is.

There are opportunities to distract himself. He meets with a fence who sells black market biotic canisters. They are flawed, prone to accelerating certain bacterial infections. He was considering punishing him for it, but the fence clearly does not know that the product he’s moving is anything worse than stolen. Hanzo instead buys them outright with the intent to destroy them, and he informs the man only to watch the blood drain from his face. Another honorable thief, Hanzo thinks wryly. It leads to conversation and an invitation to get drinks together, which leads to the proposition. Hanzo would like very badly to accept, but he cannot follow through.

He is furious to realize the fence reminded him of McCree, and he simultaneously had too little in common with him. Hanzo’s rage carries him through the next three jobs. His desperation to return to Gibraltar makes him sloppy. On the fourth job, he lets a Talon assassin get too close, and he narrowly avoids being gutted by her blade. It leaves a gash in his side instead.

He has had worse. He stitches himself together, and he continues to work.

The injury does not slow him down. Or he refuses to slow down in spite of the injury, anyway. He has worked under worse conditions.

Then he sees McCree again. Hanzo’s pride doesn’t want him to admit he is curious enough to follow. McCree is distracted, too intent on the Reaper to realize he is being baited. 

Hanzo’s pride would also like him to say that he resists, that he thinks McCree is going to get what is coming to him, that he no longer cares what happens, that Talon’s distraction with McCree is a perfect opening for Hanzo to finish his own job. None of these things are true. Hanzo barely thinks at all.

He can see from the rooftops where McCree is being led into an ambush, and he runs. He does not care how conspicuous a man with a bow may be in broad daylight or how many pedestrians will remember sighting him tomorrow. He dodges a car and ducks down a side street. Somewhere through the haze of adrenaline, he feels a twinge in his side, a warning that he is overexerting himself, and he does not care. He turns, and there is McCree, backed into an alleyway by red helmets and the Reaper’s black smoke.

He feels the wound tear again when he draws his first arrow, but it is distant compared to the fear boiling his blood. The dragons answer his call before he is even finished thinking it. They burst through the enemy, enraged and bloodthirsty, until only McCree is left standing. 

Hanzo does not know what to say to him, or how to explain any of the senseless things he did to get here. He doesn’t know how to express either his persistent anger or the depth of his gratitude that McCree is still alive. Instead of any of those things, he makes a joke so stupid that it is difficult not to wince at himself. 

It is awkward between them, and difficult to suppress the riot of things he feels. McCree’s face remains pale with shock. That, at least, is something he can address. “Are you well? I know the dragons can be—”

“Yeah. Or I will be. I’ve seen Genji’s before. Yours are just… sorta overwhelming?” 

“You weren’t afraid?”

“Scared shitless,” McCree admits readily, a breathless laugh escaping with it. The dragons buzz under his skin; they seem proud to have frightened him. “But I still know the rules. They wouldn’t hurt me unless you— Well. I knew you liked me.”

McCree’s smile is lopsided. Hanzo supposes he should be charmed, but it is only a reminder of his shame. Now that the relief is ebbing, the same anger and hurt surges forward in its place, bringing the nausea with it. He shuts down the flirtation, and McCree’s face contorts as if one of Hanzo’s arrows hit him. He regrets the words instantly, if only because causing McCree pain is not as gratifying as he imagined. It only intensifies his own. 

There is nothing he can think to say that will not make it worse. But he can feel the wound throbbing now, the blood seeping into his shirt. Survival is the easier thing to focus on. 

“Are you coming?” he asks. When McCree all but scrambles toward him, he has to stamp down on the obnoxious wriggle of hope. 

* * *

The color comes back to McCree’s face, only to drain again at the sight of the wound. He does not know why he feels compelled to reassure him. McCree is not the one who is injured. 

Hanzo suffers a  _ lecture _ about the state of his first aid kit. At first he is not sure what to make of it, and he does not care to spend more time alone with McCree than is strictly necessary. Never has he been so keenly aware of how small a room is. 

The nagging works though. McCree appeals to his pragmatic side; the injury is going to slow him down if it happens again. He cannot afford that. 

Something else is happening too, a warmth timidly unfurling at the evidence of McCree’s worry. He tries to ignore it, but it stubbornly persists. 

The room feels smaller when he changes. He does not have to look to know that McCree’s gaze is on him. It’s heavy as it travels the breadth of his body, McCree’s desire charging the air between them until Hanzo’s skin seems to hum with static. This at least was never false. 

The tension subsides when it is time to tend to his injury again. Hanzo breathes, trying to distance himself from the pain, from the anger and relief and longing. It works for a time, but it is inconsistent. McCree’s touch is too much to ignore entirely. 

He nags Hanzo for taking poor care of himself, a thread of anger in his voice that Hanzo has never heard. He doesn’t know why he responds to the anger with that soft warmth in his chest, but he knows what the warmth is and why there’s an ache that sits beside it, closing his throat and snatching his breath. He lets McCree continue to dress his wound well beyond what Hanzo actually needs help for, teetering all the while in that space between hope and despair. 

When McCree apologizes, Hanzo realizes it is the thing he’s been waiting for. It is exactly what he wants to hear. The walls he has built around himself begin to rise in response, and just as quickly, McCree tears them back down. He offers to  _ help,  _ to expedite the process of getting Hanzo back to his brother, if only Hanzo will rest long enough to heal. 

Stupid, to think this is enough. Hanzo has made that mistake before. But McCree seems humbler now, face open and words catching in his throat. Hanzo has embarked on this journey as selflessly as he knows how. Every job, every step, has been for Genji’s sake, for the sake of repairing their relationship, except this  _ thing  _ with McCree. He is tired of denying either of them, but especially of denying himself. 

He does not know what McCree’s feelings are, and there is no guarantee what will happen after, but he has decided not to care. If McCree’s words and feelings are real, that is what he would prefer, but even if they are not, Hanzo still gets to have one thing for himself. 

He takes it, and McCree lets him. The first kiss feels like a bubble bursting. He gasps, and part of it is pain, his side throbbing with every movement, but the rest is shock and desire rolled into one. The pain limits what he can do, but he can touch, and he can demand affirmation that McCree wants him too, that this part was never a lie. 

McCree is a mess, shirt and pants open, chest heaving as he touches himself at Hanzo’s command. He confesses all the things he wants, skin gleaming with sweat and the feverish flush in his face expanding until it disappears somewhere in the hair on his chest. His hair is mussed and his lips are red from their kissing. His heavy-lidded eyes are dark, pupils swallowing most of the color. He is beautiful like this, and Hanzo can no longer stand not to touch. 

The first part is explosive. The rest is gentler, exploratory. Hanzo kisses him every way he has wanted to, because it may be the last time he does. McCree’s intentions are still uncertain, but every kiss is more convincing than the last. McCree touches like he is starved for it, nearly smothering in his affection, his hands clasping like he refuses to let go. 

It is overwhelming. It is difficult to breathe under the onslaught. It is over too soon. 

* * *

They sleep together again when the job is over. It is no less intense than before. Hanzo touches wherever he can, mouth marking every piece of skin he can reach, because he knows he has to hoard every detail. The memory may be all he has when it is over. 

He is tempted to make some excuse to stay. He could ask Genji for another job. The thought brings a pang of guilt with it. He has received far more than he expected already; he cannot continue to be selfish now when he has waited so long to reach his goal. 

He also cannot bear to wait until morning. He doesn’t want the conversation with McCree, the inevitable awkwardness or the potential pain. If McCree has had his fill, Hanzo would rather leave with this memory untarnished. It feels as dangerous as any of his missions to toy with his own hope the way he does when he dares to leave a note and his phone number. If McCree does not contact him, he will have his final answer. 

* * *

There are several messages waiting when Hanzo connects to the hyperjet’s wifi. Two are from McCree, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from showing Ms. Oxton his reaction. She is nosy and will ask, and he is not yet ready to voice anything that might reveal the feeling that is expanding in his chest. 

He is welcomed back to Overwatch with mixed emotions, but Genji seems pleased enough that he is here. It does not last; close quarters remind them both of their incompatibilities, and Hanzo’s guilt compounds the issue. Wanting to repair their relationship does not magically make it so. The omnic monk his brother cares so much for assures him that time and patience are the most important tools for their reconnection. 

McCree’s messages persist until they become a staple of his day. They relieve the pressure that comes with learning to work on a team, with the realization that his input is never treated as the final word on the subject. It is perhaps a valuable lesson in humility, but that does not make it rankle less. McCree is a pleasant distraction. 

Distance and the uncertainty that he will ever see McCree face-to-face again both help keep the longing at bay, but it still presents some days, claws at his throat and pounds in his chest until lust feels inseparable from loneliness. He still wants McCree, and no amount of time or space can fully assuage it. 

Hanzo has had few enough friends in his lifetime that he is not sure what to make of the messages. He tests the boundaries, flirting carefully and often getting the same in return. It feels good, but it can be confusing too. He sends a picture he is particularly proud of, the sort that a man who is attracted to him  _ ought  _ to find appealing, and he is pleased when McCree very clearly wants more. When prompted to reciprocate, McCree responds with a picture of his coffee. It is strange enough that Hanzo does not try that route again. 

The confusion is partially resolved when Hanzo wakes from a nightmare and realizes McCree will still be awake enough to distract him. It is the first time they speak over the phone, and it dissolves quickly into McCree’s voice in his ear, describing one of the many things he would like to do if they were in the same place. It releases some tension, and it raises more questions. 

The talks continue, with and without the phone sex. With each conversation, Hanzo is more convinced that this is something that matters to both of them. With each conversation’s end, he despairs a little more.

Teamwork is more difficult than he expected, and he routinely comes to the conclusion that his talents would better fit into smaller teams and solo work. He is capable enough of doing as he is told, but there is always something missing, always more he could be doing. His improvisations only risk himself if he works alone; there are times when he feels hamstrung by his teammates’ very presence. 

He does what he can to take it all in stride, but he misses McCree and he misses his own competence, the assuredness of performing the tasks he is best suited to. After much consideration, he brings his concerns to Winston, who takes it as a critique of his abilities as leader. It isn’t, and watching his distress puts Hanzo further out of sorts, uncertain he will ever truly manage to, as McCree puts it, play well with others.

Previously he hated his inability to recruit McCree because he hates failure. Now it eats at him because it means McCree is not  _ here. _ Hanzo worked well enough with him. They get along. He does not know why he feels so out of place with other people, even those he likes. He wonders what it might be like if McCree could be around to smooth the way. He is good with people, after all. 

It might also be unbearable to have him near. The strength with which Hanzo misses him suggests his attachment could become far worse if McCree were actually around. 

Hanzo isn’t stupid. He knows there are words for these feelings. He simply finds it preposterous that they could apply to a man he has not seen in months, whose presence in his life is restricted to their connection via cell phone. 

* * *

There is a knock on his door. He considers ignoring it, but it is such a rare occurrence that his curiosity gets the better of him. 

McCree stands on the other side, with his crooked smile and that ridiculous hat in his hands.

Nothing he has said in the past several months suggested he was planning something like this. Hanzo’s brain shuts down any possibility of language, and he acts purely on instinct. 

When their mouths meet it is the same as he remembered, McCree’s lips parting readily for his. A thousand doubts die in the face of that kiss and the solidness of McCree under his hands. Hanzo kisses him until McCree is panting, laughing breathlessly against his mouth and carefully prying himself away. 

He jokes that Hanzo has finally finished his mission. It is almost too embarrassing to ask, but Hanzo tries. “Did you come here for…” He trails off as hope and doubt both slither in again. 

All McCree’s reasons are perfectly rational, but none of them unravel the tension building inside, the hope and the fear that the hope is misplaced. As if McCree knows, he switches gears and anxiously admits that Hanzo was part of the choice. 

There’s more, of course. He has a plan, an idea for how to work with Overwatch that still gives McCree all the free rein he needs, and he’s extending the same to Hanzo. “Partners?” McCree asks. 

Hanzo has to steel himself and take a breath before he can answer. “Yes,” he says, unable to stop himself from smiling. McCree’s triumphant grin banishes any remaining doubts. Then he draws Hanzo close and reminds him that Hanzo once made several bribes to get him to Gibraltar. The list is long and will take quite a while to fulfill. They will have plenty of time together now, but Hanzo supposes it won’t hurt to start right away.


End file.
